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Tunnel vision is a marvelous thing. I have already stated that I wanted to get into the hotel, bags in tow, before being approached by any tip-grabbing porters. We had also been traveling from the airport, on bus and foot, for about an hour and the end was in sight. I saw Caroline entering the hotel ahead of me, and I was not going to let a silly thing like a revolving door prevent my ingress into the luxurious foyer of the Shelbourne. My initial thoughts were that attempting to find an easier to use door than the general entrance might engage me in a tussle with a porter; perhaps there's a special trademan's entrance for bags, I surmised (despite seeing the normal, non-revolving side doors), perhaps they'll insist on using this special entrance without me... I could not let that happen.
Tunnel vision. Remember that. I was not thinking straight. Or at least, I was thinking straight, but more straight-line-into-foyer-no-detours, rather than what-is-the-best-way-in-with-this-case straight. I decided that I would take myself, my suitcase and the travel bag through the elegant wood, brass and glass revolving door.
I have had previous experience of unusual passage through revolving doors. I once managed to get a wheelbarrow in and out of the office. The secret is to hold the item vertically and parallel to the door you are following round. With this experience to guide me, my travel through the entrance of one of Ireland's more famous hotels was slightly fiddly, but, on the whole, fairly steady. At the time, I felt that I must have got away with it, performing with grace, finesse and even discretion. I was wrong. I later found my beliefs to be entirely wishful thinking - a product of my deluded state of mind. Caroline had been too polite to mention in public how embarrassing the whole episode was.
Among my false assumptions, on entering the hotel (the door thing being the more major), was that the small desk in front of me, staffed by uniformed men, must be a very discreet posh-hotel reception desk. I duly queued for their attention and announced that they would have a reservation for me. The concierge, to whom I spoke, politely directed me to the real reception, which had been hidden from my sight by a pillar in the foyer. The faux-pas count was up to two... so far...
At reception, I announced myself and, joy of joys, they had heard of me and had even received word of my preferred sort of room. After I had filled in a registration form, the reception lady requested a swipe of a credit card. To the best of my knowledge, the room was already paid for, since the Expedia booked required the money up front, or at least said it would be charging my credit card. I was also fairly certain that I'd seen the Expedia charge on my credit card statement and was absolutely certain that UI was not prepared to pay the usual going rate for a Shelbourne room - a staggering £250 per night.
I may be sounding like a miser here, but I had arranged a stay at a more expensive hotel than I was accustomed to using and didn't want the budget to be increased further unnecessarily.
I checked, as I handed over the credit card, that the swipe was insurance against room service and mini-bar expenses. The answer I received was suitably ambiguous and I decided to let it pass. There's no cock up that I cannot sort out in the end, using a combination of credit cards, telephones and sarcasm.
12 April 2002
Ashley Frieze